The Moorsville Marching Angels
by The Silver Trumpet
Summary: Diaval Ravenscroft just moved to Moors High, where he joins the marching band. He is intrigued by the senior they all have cast aside, Maleficent Fairen, and he is determined to find out exactly why the ski-slope nosed section leader, Stefan, hates her so much. Modern AU. Eventual Maleval.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This little piece of genius (or not) struck me at the wee hours of fuck o'clock this morning when I was putting the finishing touches on Dreaming of You. I was listening to the movie run, and it was at the scene where Diaval asks, "What have you done to my beautiful self?" And thought to myself,****_ Man, Diaval is as vain as a trumpet player_****. Then I began to categorize the other characters by what instrument sections I thought they would be best suited to, and this little thing wormed itself into my head. I have an idea for continuing it, but AU really isn't my style, so I might also just leave it as a one-shot. Who knows?**

**The T-shirt design mentioned is based off of my marching band's T-shirt design from this last year (we're the Marching Wildcats, but our show was entitled Angelic Voices, so this year we were also kinda the marching angels). **

**Disclaimer: I own not a single thing. **

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"Here you are, kid. Hey, what's your name again?" The weathered old fat man had a thick shock of silver hair and beady, cruel yellow-green eyes that made Diaval's heart cringe.

The boy swallowed hard and accepted the proffered coordinate card, slipping it around his neck. "Diaval Ravenscroft, sir. Trumpet player." He brushed his thick black hair out of his eyes and peered up at the band director. "Is there anything else I need?"

The man (his name was Henry Hendrickson, but he made all the kids call him Mr. Henry) handed him a black T-shirt. "You didn't have marching band at your old school, did ya, kid?" Diaval shook his head. "Oh, well. You go join your section. Stefan's the section leader, so I 'spect he'll be teaching you how to march and all. Keep in mind, trumpets are a big section on frosh hazing."

"But I'm not a freshman," Diaval replied, worry fuddling his brow.

"You don't know how to march, you're a freshman. Don't matter what grade you're in. Auditions for first part are next week. You got any questions, ask your section leader, and if he don't know the answer then it's not an important question. I am not to be bothered with your confusion. Understand, kid?"

"Yes, sir." Diaval nodded. He quickly changed into the black shirt—why on earth did it have _angel wings_ on the back?—and hurried toward his new section with his trumpet tucked under his arm. He surveyed the faces quickly. None of them looked exactly like a 'Stefan'. In fact, for the most part, they all looked _the_ same—most male and tan, and all wearing the same black shirt with angel wings. They were split into groups, chatting and the like, at the edge of the football field. His eyes landed on a red-headed girl with pigtails. She looked trustworthy, except that she was clinging on the arm of a_ huge_ boy with beach-blonde hair. He wasn't looking to get himself beat up. His eyes continued scanning over them.

Only one sensible being was actually warming up. She was paler than the rest, her skin nearly translucent, and Diaval wondered how much sun lotion she put on, exactly. Long, dark brown hair stood straight and stiff down her back, almost hiding the two gaping holes in the back of her shirt. The angel wing designs had been torn out of it. He frowned and swallowed his fear, approaching her quietly. "Um, excuse me?"

She pulled her horn down from her lips. She had apparently been doing much more than just warming up; there was a ring around them from the mouthpiece. Her eyes glittered and gleamed like hot emerald gold. "Yes?" she drawled, raising a shapely eyebrow. She was as tall as Diaval.

His throat went dry. "I, um. _Wow_." He realized just how stupid that sounded, so he continued, "I'm Diaval, and I'm supposed to be, um, playing trumpet?"

"Are you telling me or asking me?"

"Um...telling you?" He shoveled a hand through his hair. "I mean, Mr. Henry told me to find Stefan, because he's like the section leader, but you people aren't exactly wearing name tags, so could you, um, direct me to him?"

Her eyes flashed at him. He almost shielded his eyes. Then a smirk crawled onto her face. His stomach turned. He really didn't like this girl, and he didn't know why he had been so scared of the tall boy and girl with pigtails. "Are you a freshman?" He shook his head. "Transfer, then." He nodded, finding that it worked better when she asked the questions and he answered. "Junior?" He kept bobbing his head much like a bird. "Very well. Stefan's over there."

His eyes followed her finger to where it pointed behind the band trailer, where a tall, gangly boy with a ski-slope nose was making out with a pretty blonde girl. A clarinet was cradled between them, and a silver trumpet lay at their feet. His throat went even drier. "Do you suppose he would care if I interrupted them?"

She laughed. "He would care very much, birdy."

He stiffened. "What?"

"You act like a bird. You earned it." She rolled her eyes. "First lesson—all the trumpets give each other embarrassing nicknames. You'll thank me when Hans invents something especially cruel."

"You're demeaning my beautiful self!"

She glared at him. "Stop complaining. I just saved your reputation."

He snorted and looked away, feeling foolish and petty. "Forgive me." He looked back to where the happy couple was continuously groping each other. "Would it be judgmental of me to say that I thought section leaders were supposed to actually care about the band?"

"It would not." She looked away. There was an unidentified emotion written on her face again. "What was your name again, birdy?"

"Diaval," he provided. "And yours?"

"Maleficent." She didn't provide her nickname, and he didn't request it. "I take it that you don't know anything about this marching deal, do you?" He shook his head. "Very well. Meet me at freshman practice an hour before scheduled tomorrow. You must learn."

Before he had time to complain, the director was rising up on a mechanical lift. The sun crackled hotly against their black shirts. "Arc up, everybody!" The trumpets quickly began to form an arc behind the woodwinds. Diaval, almost completely lost in the menagerie of people running about, kept his eyes on Maleficent, and she grabbed him by the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him into the arc next to her.

The red-haired boy with ugly sideburns on his other side eyed him. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

Before Diaval had a chance to respond, Maleficent quipped, "Your elder, sideburns."

"I wasn't asking you, witch!"

It didn't take long for Diaval to sense that, if his intentions had been to fit in with his new section, he had definitely picked the wrong person to approach. It seemed that everyone hated Maleficent. "I'm_ birdy_," Diaval snapped back at the boy.

"Trumpets, stop talking!" the director yelled down with his megaphone. "Count your section; make sure everyone's here!"

The ski-slope nosed Stefan counted the trumpets on his fingers. Diaval couldn't help looking at him and thinking, _What a douche canoe_. He was already sweating. Why did it have to be so damn hot? And, if they weren't marching yet, why couldn't they just play inside? Wouldn't it be easier on everyone? He snapped to attention alongside everyone else and warmed up; their slurs and long-tones were easy to figure out, if he stared at Maleficent's fingers and mimicked the valve combinations. The practice dragged by, hot and long and filled with quips passing between the trumpets, who almost all seemed to completely agree that Maleficent was a witch.

Diaval couldn't help himself. He defended her against a disdainful comment cast by the ski-slope nosed section leader. "If she's a witch," he snapped, "she's got magic powers, and all you've got is nose the size of Mount Olympus! Does it grow when you tell lies, _Pinocchio_?"

The entire section went deathly quiet and still while Stefan drew himself up to his full height—quite a bit taller than Diaval, admittedly—and approached the raven-locked boy. "_What _did you just call me, freshman?" He fisted his hand in Diaval's black shirt. "Would you care to_ repeat_ that?"

Diaval knew he couldn't back out now. "I asked, Pinocchio, does your nose grow when you tell lies?" His eyes flicked to Maleficent for the barest hint of a second. She was smirking.

"Do you know what you are now, punk? Now you're a Moorsville Marching Angel. And you know what I do to naughty angels?" Diaval glared up into the beady, hateful eyes. "I cut off their wings." He suddenly understood why there were tears in Maleficent's black shirt. "Remember that, punk, before you go messing around with the wrong kind of people in this band."

His hand released Diaval's shirt, but not before the shorter boy glared back and hissed, "I'm no punk, Pinocchio. I'm a birdy."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: After some debating with myself, I decided to continue this story. I have been spending time on another Maleval fic that hasn't been uploaded yet, as I don't have enough chapters written. Then, I decided that I would write on this in between my other fics, which basically means everything is going to be updated slower. I am not using any restraint in uploading these chapters; I'm putting them up literally as soon as I finish them, seeing as this is one of my more lax stories. I also understand that the whole idea of this story will probably scare some readers away, considering the vast majority of the world hasn't participated in marching band. But oh well. I can't scare away this plot bunny, so it must be written. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

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"Tuck in your center! And god, don't you know how to pull up? Lock your knees! The _back_ of the heel, birdy, it's not that hard!" Maleficent was quite the coach, Diaval thought, though he was glad he was the one suffering and not one of the poor little freshmen. All four of the underclassmen were appropriately apprenticed to the section leader, who didn't really care if they could march or not, while Diaval was picked up by the angel with the missing wings. "C'mon, if you want to play first part, you're going to have to march like a junior instead of an eighth grader!"

"Since when do I want to play first part?" he grumbled. He cursed the tri-state midsummer humidity and adjusted his slipping sunglasses on his face. Practice hadn't even started yet and he was already sweating like a dog. He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. There was no purpose behind marching band starting in July. There was also no purpose in practice being held in the heat of the afternoon.

"Since I want you to." Her hands prodded at his stomach and adjusted his posture, making uncomfortable tingling sensations go all over him. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she wore a ball cap with devil horns adorning the top. She was pale as ever, even though he had never seen her touch a bottle of sun lotion, and her eyes glimmered like emeralds in the bright, accursed southern Indiana sun. "I already put your name on the audition list. Come on, birdy, it's eight to five, it's not that hard!"

"You what? When? When—oh my god, I need to_ practice!_"

"Right now you need to march. We'll practice your music tomorrow."

"We don't have rehearsal tomorrow."

"That's why I'm coming over to your house."

She jabbed at his elbows until he adjusted them correctly. "And you're just assuming that my aunt is going to be okay with all of this? You didn't even think to, I dunno, text me to make plans with me?"

"Of course I _thought_ to. But if I did that, you would have the opportunity to say no."

"You don't know—_ow!_ Where I live." He rubbed his sore side and glared at her, but her eyes made his chest feel warm, and he quickly looked away. He hoped she thought the blush on his cheeks was sunburn.

She smirked. "Mr. Henry's computer password is one two three four. Your address is listed alongside your band camp deposit, your phone number, coordinate card number, and student ID number." With a raised eyebrow, she recited, "Five eighty six Fidel Lane, hmm? Those are Greenwood Apartments. Apartment twenty-nine, yes?"

He grated his teeth against her charm and resisted the temptation to throw the word witch in her face. He bobbed his head in agreement. "Yes. In between apartments Crack-head and Alcoholic." Moorsville was arguably a great town, but all towns had their rough sides, and the Greenwood apartment complex had ghetto written all over it.

She laughed mirthlessly. "I know, birdy. I used to live there." He stared at her blankly. He couldn't imagine anything so lovely living in such a ghetto place. But before he could question her, she prodded him in the back. "Jazz-run twenty yards and then we're done."

"_Done?_ Practice hasn't even _started_ yet!"

"Stop complaining." She used that phrase on him a lot, and it usually worked. He compliantly followed her orders. She nodded in what appeared to be mild approval, which he supposed was better than a sharp jab in the side with her cattle-prodding fingers. "Now let's go back inside. Water break before the others get here." She swaggered down the concrete ramp and into the building, leaving him to trail after her and stare at her exposed skin where the wings had been torn out of her black shirt. She stopped and peered over her shoulder at him. He froze. He'd been caught staring. "See something you like, birdy?" Her raised eyebrow was a threat.

Diaval choked. "Um…maybe?"

She laughed her mirthless, sarcastic, musical laugh and entered the band room. He followed her with blush heating his cheeks, and she handed him a piece of music. They sat down on the floor next to each other to examine it. "Your audition piece."

He frowned. "This is _it?_" The music barely had any eighth notes, let alone sixteenths, and other than some difficult slurs, it looked easy. The range was up to an A, which he assumed many of the freshman could hit.

She nodded. "It's the Junior All State audition from a few years ago. Hendrickson has some problems realizing that we're past the middle school level now." She rolled her eyes. "Our practice session is still on."

He stared at it. "How many—I mean, who am I competing against?"

She tutted at him. "It's not a competition," she mocked. "But, if you meant who else wants the spot, Hans and Kristoff would both kill for it. However, Hans can't play above an E, and Kristoff's tone is like a dying cat. We can assume at least one of the freshmen will also audition, but come on, a freshman hasn't been on first since_ I_ was a freshman."

"You played first as a freshman?"

She nodded. "Pinocchio and I both earned ourselves spots among the seniors."

He snorted. "He could play trumpet with his engorged nose."

"What was that, punk?" The tall, gangly section leader sauntered into the room with his girlfriend attached to his hip, giggling. "You collaborating with the witch, _scarface_?"

Diaval's reaction was immediate. He leapt to his feet, his hands jammed into white-knuckled fists. His lips curled down into a snarl. He was going to hurt him; he was going to hurt him so_ bad_—

Maleficent touched his arm. Her cool touch soothed the anger that brewed within him. "Go fuck your girlfriend and get the hell away from us, Pinocchio."

He drew his stinking breath up into her face, and Diaval didn't miss the brief fear that alit in her eyes. "Make me, witch. You gonna fly up high in the sky and drop me? Oh yeah, I forgot. You don't have any wings." He curled his arm around Leila. There was a sound of him choking up some phlegm, and he spat on Diaval's shoes before dragging the clarinet player out of the room alongside him.

She realized that her fingers were tightly grasping his wrist, and she relinquished it. "Are you alright?"

"I'm disgusted." He kicked off his shoes and climbed up the trumpet cubbies where he knew Stefan's horn was stored; the section leader and Kristoff were the only ones tall enough to reach it. He quickly unzipped the black cloth case and pulled out his polishing cloth. "This will do." He jumped down and scrubbed the slime off of his shoes. As a finishing touch, he spat in it and wrapped it up, sticking it back in the case. "Ick. I have to wash my hands." He left to the bathroom and went to scrub his hands. Once away from her eyes, he washed his face with a wet paper towel and gazed at his pale, scarred reflection in the mirror.

Maleficent could sense that Stefan had poured salt onto some old wounds for her junior friend. She pulled out his trumpet case for him and prepared his horn, settling his gloves and coordinate card across them. She then reached for her own instrument and headed toward the field. If it continued like this, soon someone would snap. The tensions were too high. The air ghosted into the back of her ripped shirt, and she wondered not for the first time why she continued to wear it. She thought of her growing feelings toward her little birdy, and she shivered. It was stupid for her to think of him like that. She was an angel with no wings, and Diaval was only an outcast because of her. It would have been kinder of her to leave him alone that first day.

She estimated her place in the arc before the director called for it, and soon Hans joined her, standing too close for comfort. "You're going to get it," he breathed to her. His breath smelled like cigarettes. "You and that noob are playing with fire, messing with Stefan like this."

She rolled her eyes. "I know exactly what I'm doing, sideburns."

He stood his ground just a moment longer so that his breath heated her neck. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He moved away from her and left Diaval a gap in the arc.

Memories angered the scars on her back and made her want to scratch at them. She would never forget that last night at band camp, where the trumpets had gathered around the section leader—also Stefan, then, the first junior to ever be a section leader—and cheered while he raked his fingernails down her bare back, and the pain of a cigarette lighter's flame curled across her flesh. Was that Diaval's future?

Her birdy fell into the arc beside her and placed his heels together. "Thanks," he mumbled. Practice began, hot and humid as ever, with few words passing between the trumpets except for when they adjusted each other's posture, which mostly went on with the freshmen. "What time tomorrow?" he whispered.

"Five."

"Dinner time? We'll disturb the neighbors."

"That was my _point._" She fell into a basics block beside him. "I'm watching you, little birdy," she threatened. Blush crawled across his scarred neck, and she wondered where he had gotten them. They were severe, but not ugly. They highlighted his dark, passionate eyes and added a touch of character to him. But she knew their story couldn't be a good one—it seldom was with scars—by the angered way that he had been prepared to annihilate Stefan when mocked him as scarface.

She watched him carefully, even from the corners of her eyes, and whispered quiet encouragements to him when the director wasn't nearby. He adjusted appropriately and smiled into his mouthpiece. They did basics for an hour and a half, and they spent the rest of the time working on a piece called the "Pain Train" which left Diaval rubbing his chops and moaning about his face. Maleficent slipped some lip balm into his hand. He quickly held his horn between his knees and began to put it on without a question.

Darkness came with a pleasant coolness over the practice field, and too soon they were all dismissed, even though it was twenty minutes past their normal release time. Diaval offered her the lip balm back. "Do you want this back?"

She snatched it away. "Of course I do. Trumpets don't worry about germs. That's a _flute_ problem." She picked up her familiar swagger that always left him staring at her skin bathed silver in the moonlight. In between the rips in her t-shirt, he saw a ripple of scars against her skin. They were there, and then they were gone in a shimmering. But he knew that he had seen them. He knew that she was scarred, too.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: As I remain uninspired in my school work, I have returned yet again to write fanfics. *sigh* One day this lack of motivation will surely bite me in the ass. But not today! Also, I apologize for my increased amount of typos. I always proofread my work, but most of my writing I do at three or four AM, and usually I proofread at that same time a few days later, so often I miss little things with my tired eyes. **

**Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. **

**Reviews are appreciated!**

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Diaval couldn't believe exactly how nervous he was as he paced the floor, counting down the minutes till five o'clock. His aunt, Knotgrass, had gone to work with the words, "Just don't get her pregnant, sonny." She always called him sonny. He despised it, but he didn't mention it to her. She suffered, too. He hadn't just lost his mother. She had lost a sister.

He shoveled a hand through his thick dark hair. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about this, not with Maleficent minutes away from arriving. His trumpet was prepared, his music stacked on a music stand, and he couldn't make himself admit that he had deliberated over which T-shirt to wear for the greater part of half an hour. The one he finally selected was simple and black, very similar to the marching shirt, only without the wing pattern on the back.

With another glance at his reflection, he hissed in annoyance. Why did the scars have to be on his _face?_ He couldn't cover them up without make up, and while that was a viable option, he really didn't find anything appealing in going to the store and making himself look like a positive drag queen.

There was the sound of shouting outside before someone furiously knocked on the door. He peered through the peephole and swung it open. Maleficent seemed unfazed by the fighting alcoholic lesbian couple from two apartments down. "Those two bitches still live here? I was hoping one of them would've killed the other by now," she drawled. The sound of shattering glass met his ears before he ushered her in, shut the door, and locked it.

"Um, yeah." _Brilliant, simply brilliant_. He cursed himself. "Hi." That was even worse. "Um…How are you?" It sounded so uncertain. He tried to redeem himself. "I hope you brought the condoms, because I have specific orders not to get you pregnant." He quirked his lips into a smile.

She smirked and set her trumpet case on the ground. The stained, worn furniture didn't seem to turn her off, and she didn't curl her lip in disgust at the smelly walls and peeling wall paper. "I'm great. I thought the deal was that _you'd_ bring the condoms. I have the lube." She teasingly threw him a stick of slide grease.

"Oh! I was looking for this!"

"I snatched it a few days ago." She began to pull out her trumpet and rubbed the polishing cloth lovingly over the bell. "Spit stains," she mumbled. "So disgusting."

"Oh, come on, it's just a little water."

She glared at him. "I'll get Pinocchio to spit on your shoes again, birdy."

He curled his lip. "That's different. That was actual spit that came out of the back of some bastard's throat, and it wasn't _mine_." He crossed his arms. "You can clean up your condensation any time. I thought you were here to practice."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you rushing me, birdy?"

He sat down next to her on the couch, cursing the springs when they buckled and pushed them together. "Never. Take your time. Just remember, the second hand smoke from the people upstairs is slowly killing you every moment you spend in here."

"I am quite aware." She reached for some valve oil and began to perform open heart surgery on her trumpet. "Just let me get the valves working properly. They're so obnoxiously slow today." She screwed the first one back in and experimentally blew air through it to make sure it was in right. She repeated the careful action with the next two valves before standing. "Alright, birdy."

He stood next to her before realizing that he had set up all of his stuff in his room. Oh gods. "Oh. Well, see, I just…it's all, my music and stuff is all in my, um, room?"

"Cut the interrogative tone and lead the way." Her eyes glittered at him. She wore a green-gold shirt that would have looked like baby poop on anyone else, but brought out the gemlike streaks in her beautiful eyes. Her headband, like her favorite cap, was adorned with devil horns.

"Um…okay? Okay," he amended at her narrowed eyes. He was way too nervous; it exhaled off of him in waves. He was suddenly glad that he had chosen a dark shirt that hid his nervous pit stains, and he commended himself for buying a valve guard so his sweat wouldn't rub the silver off of his horn. He led her back to his room, which was modestly furnished with a twin sized bed that barely fit his body, a small crowded dresser, and a desk. In the middle of the room, he had set up his music stand with the audition music. "Um, ta-da?"

She inclined her eyebrows at him, and he blushed. She pulled the stand up to their height and began to examine the music. "You don't appear to need my help at all." She noted the highlighting and pencil marks across the music. "Analyzing mind, birdy. You must be a perfectionist."

"I wouldn't say that. I don't exactly poke _myself_ hard enough to leave bruises, do I?"

"I do not leave bruises on you," she objected.

"Your fingers are like cattle prods!"

Her eyes were narrowed to slits so he couldn't see the good-natured twinkle there. She grabbed the hem of his shirt. "Let's see them, then."

He flinched away from her like he'd been burnt, and she instantly knew that she had come dangerously close to uncovering some secret he protected. He swallowed hard and smoothed his shirt down, clearing his throat. "Alright." His voice was smaller than it'd been before. "Let's begin?"

"I wonder how you've ever passed an English presentation with all that guessing, birdy. Speak with con_vict_ion!"

His head bobbed. "Alright, yes, conviction? Conviction. Music now."

She almost laughed at him and sat down on the foot of his bed. "Let's hear it then." He stared at her blankly. "It's not _my_ audition," she reminded him coolly. He looked at her in a clueless manner, but seemed to take control of himself. His pink tongue wet his lips for a moment, and then he pressed the cool metal to his lips. There was a deep intake of breath, and he began to play. The music floated, crystalline and dark, from his bell, and though it was an easy piece, he made it sound impressive in a way that enraptured Maleficent's heart.

Then, he lowered his horn back to his side, and the only sign that there'd been any music at all was the ring around his lips. And, of course, the upstairs neighbor was stomping down on them. Diaval gave a half-smile. "He does that when he's hung over," he told her awkwardly.

She sighed and lay down on his bed, folding her hands behind her head. "You don't need my help. Play it again and I'll try to find a mistake."

He snorted. "Alright." He began to play again, facing away from her. She felt something under his pillow. Curiosity prodded at her, and she pulled out a small picture frame. It showed a much younger Diaval hugging a pretty woman at what appeared to be an amusement park. They were both smiling and laughing. The woman was quite obviously closely related to him; she had the same straight black hair and passionate black eyes. Tucked into the back of the frame was a newspaper clipping from six months before. _Fatal car crash in Ulstead for single mother Cassandra Ravenscroft. Her son was left with some minor injuries_. Written just below it in Diaval's penmanship was, "_I love you, Mom_."

The music was drawing to a close. Maleficent quickly stuffed the picture back under the pillow and tried to make herself seem relaxed while she rapidly blinked away the tears that budded behind her eyes. She had been snooping while his back was turned, and that wasn't right. "Any complaints?" His voice drew her out of her thoughts.

"Hmm? No."

His shoulders sagged a bit. "Come on, there has to be something wrong with it." His eyes flicked over her, and she could see it in his eyes. He _knew_. Her skin began to crawl uncomfortably in a way it hadn't in a very long time. A sick feeling turned her belly. She felt a familiar but foreign sensation pass over her. This wasn't right; it was too soon. "Not even one little complaint?" He gave a soft smile.

The scars on her back were itching. She resisted the urge to scratch them. "I could complain about your lack of faith in yourself, birdy, but your playing is superb. You could give Pinocchio a run for his money."

His face curled downward like he'd smelled something bad. "Do we really have to talk about him right now?"

"That is a very good point." He sank down onto the bed next to her, both of them dangling off the edges to keep from touching each other. She could feel him sinking down at the thought of Stefan and his mockery. Almost without realizing it, her index finger traced the scar on his temple. His eyes fluttered closed.

"Quite hideous, aren't they?" His voice was painfully thin, not breaking so much as already broken.

"I think they're handsome." She tenderly pressed her lips there, and his cheeks tinted pink. The room seemed to grow warmer, and the tension ran high between them, and neither dared to move closer for fear of startling the other, and neither dared move away for fear of rejecting the other. His eyes opened into slits. He peered at her with those passionate black eyes, so like his mother's, and they were swimming with tears. "Don't give me that look. Do you take me for a liar?"

He gave her a sad smile. "Never." He cleared his throat. "Now, this may seem normal to you, but the only other girl I've ever had in here is my Aunt Knotgrass, and she never lays on my bed and tells me how handsome my scars are, so I'm treading strange waters here."

She laughed, and they talked fondly for a very long time. They spoke of many things; Diaval told her a little about his mom, and their accident, and he wasn't angry at her for snooping about his room, but instead seemed relieved that someone was there to listen. She told him about the trumpets and their hazing rituals for the section leaders to perform and prove their discipline over their section members. She let him lift her shirt to admire the cigarette burns and gash-like scars there, and she told him her own story, the fated and short-lived love between her and Stefan before his ambition for the position of section leader took him over. She also told him a little about her own family, and her mothers, Thistlewit and Flittle.

They talked until the sun had left the sky and Knotgrass was returning home from work, hauling enough food for four people. "Sonny!" she called as soon as she entered the apartment. "I hope your girlfriend's still here, because I brought pie!"

"Girlfriend?" Maleficent questioned right as Diaval yelped, "_Pie!_" He leapt off of the bed and raced down the short hallway, skidding across the tile in his socks, and she charged after him. "What was that about a _girlfriend?_"

"Pie!" Diaval cried again. He sliced two pieces for them and put one on a plate for her while Knotgrass _oo_ed and _ah_ed over his beautiful trumpet friend. The woman was older than she'd imagined, or at least looked older. She looked nothing at all like Diaval except for those same haunting black eyes that peered from her skull. Her skin was crinkled, her hair graying in some places, but most striking of all was her outfit of complete pink. "Aunt Knotgrass, do you want a slice, too?"

"Oh, no, sonny, I will be getting to bed right soon. Early shift tomorrow. Goodnight, dearie!" She waved to Maleficent, who tentatively waved back.

The girl turned to Diaval. "She's quite…the character, birdy."

"Feel free to insult her as you wish behind her back. But the restaurant she works at makes the best pie in the whole town. Do you want something to drink?" His entire demeanor had brightened at the concept of pie.

"Just water, please."

He came to the kitchen table practically skipping and placed it before her. "She likes you," he put in. "She only calls the people she likes dearie. And the people she likes are basically restricted to me and the stray cats that turn up sometimes. Crazy cat lady."

"Did you tell her I was your girlfriend?" Maleficent finally coughed up the guts to ask.

"Of course not!" He bristled indignantly. "I told her exactly what we were doing. She just interpreted it differently."

"Oh?"

"Think it over. Playing trumpets. Blowing horns." He raised his eyebrows at her suggestively, and she nodded in understanding. He was right; the pie crust practically dissolved on her tongue. "I know she's eight shades of crazy…okay, probably more like ten shades, but she's really nice." He shrugged. "She makes living in this ghetto hellhole bearable, so what can I say?"

"Stop talking and eat your pie," she mumbled around a mouthful of pecan pie. He obeyed with a smile around his eyes. She thought it was more than just the pie that made his eyes glow so brightly, so passionately. And she couldn't help but wonder if, one day, those eyes might glow brightly and passionately for _her_.

Their little pie-dinner date was soon over, and Maleficent needed to get home, else her moms would be angry. "Will the next practice be at your house?" Diaval asked cheekily.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You are in no more need of practice." His face didn't quite fall. He knew she was still speaking, and he certainly knew better than to make assumptions around her and jump to conclusions. "If you want to go on a date with me, ask me the right way." She smirked.

His lips went dry. "Alright," he agreed softly. He took her hand and kissed the back of it before raising his eyes back to her. "Would Lady Maleficent grace me with her presence at dinner in two days' time at five ninety Fidel Lane, at whenever time is appropriate for her and her mothers?"

She almost burst out laughing. "Of course I will, you silly birdy. That is, assuming I don't get caught in an endless web of _'go ask your mother'_." She winked at him. "Has Lady Maleficent earned herself a goodnight kiss?"

"She has." He kissed her cheek and handed her trumpet case to her. "Goodnight, m'lady."

"Don't forget rehearsal tomorrow night," she told him as she left the dingy apartment complex. She cranked her car up and waved to him a final time, though the door was already closing after her. She had more than half an hour left before her curfew was over, and her house was a two-minute drive down the road (she really should've walked). On any other night, she would have been sure to spend the rest of her allotted time before charging home right at the last minute, just before her mom was going to call her. But not tonight. Tonight she drove straight home and greeted her moms, telling them a little about her night and a _lot_ about the dinner date they were going to have.

She couldn't say she'd ever been more excited for anything before in her life.


	4. Chapter 4

"Mal! Your mom's burning the kitchen to the ground!" Flittle shrieked.

Maleficent ran into the room. "Mom!" She wasn't even completely sure which of the bumbling women her comment was directed to—Thistlewit, who was fanning the smoke alarm, or Flittle, who was about to dump water all over an oil fire. "No!" She grabbed a towel and quickly smothered the leaping flames. "Don't put water on an oil fire, _ever!_ That's incredibly dangerous!"

"But…water puts out fire…"

Maleficent gave a patient sigh. She peered at the charred remnants of the meal. "What _was _this, exactly?" Whatever it was, all that was left of it was ashes. "I told you, no crazy African delicacies. They're supposed to think we're _normal_, remember?"

The fire alarm finally stopped going off, and the woman in green leapt off of the kitchen table. "It _was_ hash browns. But apparently it's not anymore." She crossed her arms and stuck up her nose. "If you would've let me fry beetles, like I wanted to, they might've liked it!"

"Normal people don't eat fried—" The oven began to beep loudly. Smoke was exhaling from it. Thistlewit climbed back onto the kitchen table and began to fan the smoke alarm again. Maleficent pulled out what was supposed to be the cake, but it was grossly overcooked. With a look at the settings, she noted that it had been set on five fifty rather than three fifty. "Ew." She turned off the oven. "Oh-kay, so there's no cake, no hash browns, the steaks are marinating, so I suppose we're going to eat steak and salad."

"We still have time to—"

"No fried bugs of any sort."

"Not even—"

"_Nope!_" Maleficent grabbed Flittle's arm. "We are going to pick out what you're wearing, and Mom can handle the steaks." She wished, not for the first time in her life, that she could use mitosis to split into several versions of herself so that she could supervise both of them as well as get stuff done. "You are going to wear that turquoise dress that Mom and I picked out last year."

"But it's not _blue!_"

"It's blue enough." Patience was starting to be hard to come by. "I'm going to change into something that doesn't smell like burnt hash browns. And under no circumstances are you to go back into the kitchen!" She headed to her room, where her phone was alit with texts from Diaval.

**::My aunt has some potato salad and pie, should we bring it?::**

**::Is this formal or not? Should I wear nice clothes?::**

**::Are both of your parents Mrs. Fairen?::**

**::What are we having for dinner?::**

Maleficent sighed and texted him back**. ::Potato salad and pie please. Wear what you want. Blue mom is Ms. Clark and green mom is Ms. Fairen. Dinner will be steaks and salad unless that gets burnt up too::**

There was a moment's pause before he responded. **::How would one burn up salad?::**

**::It is very possible::**

**::Would you prefer a regular tie or a bowtie? Apologizing in advance that my aunt is dressing like a piglet::**

She almost snorted aloud. Leave it to Diaval to just assume ties were required. And Knotgrass did seem to be the type to wear so much pink that she would be labeled a piglet. **::Piglet is fine::** It wasn't; Flittle hated pink**. ::You don't have to wear a tie. But I am curious about your bowtie skills::**

Almost a minute went by before he typed back to her. **::Kk. Too early to send an ily?::**

**::Too early::** Her cheeks warmed a little at those three little letters. ** ::I need to monitor the kitchen progress. See you at six::** She laid her phone back on the table and hurried back to the kitchen.

Diaval wondered if he had scared her away. He tried to convince himself that what he felt wasn't love, but instead it was mere infatuation. It would develop into love, only if she wanted it. "Aunt Knotgrass, can you please wear something that doesn't look like a—I mean, something that isn't baby pink all over?"

"Nonsense, sonny. _Everyone_ loves pink." She whirled in front of the mirror, smoothing over the rumples in the fabric. She was acting almost like _she_ was the one going on the date, instead of him. "Do you have to wear solid black?" She tutted under her breath. "Just like your mother, sonny."

He forced himself to keep from retorting that that was _why_ he was wearing solid black, and tightly replied, "Maleficent likes black." She didn't seem to sense his discomfort with the subject and continued to apply her mascara and—ugh, pink eye shadow. Pink blush, too.

"Would you let me cover up those horrible scars, dear? I'm sure girls don't like scars. We're_ not_ in the medieval ages anymore."

He swallowed back bile and tears that threatened to burst from his throat. She didn't mean to offend him. She didn't mean to hurt him. She was the only one left on the whole damn planet that gave a _fuck _whether he lived or died. He hadn't just lost his mother. She had lost a sister. She was hurting, too. He tried to convince himself of that. "Maleficent likes my scars. She told me so." He had a sinking sensation that she wouldn't like the fresh scars on his wrists, though. He tugged uncomfortably on the long-sleeved, high-collared shirt.

"Does she, _really_, or was she just saying that? Scars are such…_unattractive_ things," she sniffed, sticking her nose up in the air.

He bristled. "She really does. She's not a liar." He looked at the clock. 5:25. Could six arrive any sooner? He headed back to his bedroom, mumbling something about needing to comb his hair again. The shirt was uncomfortable; the tie wouldn't tie right; his pants were too big. His wrists burned at the cloth that chafed them. He closed the door behind him and opened the sleeves. The cuts were shallow. They hadn't bled long. If he was lucky, they would be almost completely healed by Monday's band practice, and Maleficent would never know anything about his grave mistake.

It hadn't fixed anything. If anything, it made it worse. It just actualized his pain. It wasn't a coping skill. And now he was stuck with pain digging at his wrists while he wore a painted smile for his band buddy (girlfriend?). He had a sinking feeling, though, that she could see through painted smiles. He could easily fool Knotgrass, and no one else ever looked at him twice.

His reflection was paler, more haggard, than usual. He combed his hair back again, the way he used to wear it, but then stopped. His old style showed off the rippling scars too much. He smoothed it back down and adjusted it so that it hid most of the ones around his eyes. It made his hair look flat, but it would do. After all, he couldn't have the moms thinking he was some scarred up emotionally unstable mess, could he?_ "Scars are such unattractive things." _He didn't even know if Maleficent had told them about why he lived with his aunt, or even _if _she told them that he lived with his aunt. He would have to be prepared to answer any questions regarding his mother and their accident politely and without breaking down into tears, and he didn't think he was ready yet.

He tried to convince himself that he was being silly. Maleficent would have warned them. She was intelligent, and a tiny part of him hoped that a tiny part of her cared about him the way he cared for her.

He tried to mentally make the clock tick faster. Would she care if they turned up half an hour early? Probably not, but the food might not be done yet. It was rude to turn up before scheduled.

Food. Right. He buttoned up his sleeves and ran to the kitchen. If nothing else, he could get the food they were bringing in the proper bowls and such. So far, he had succeeded in scaring his date away, letting himself get offended by his well-meaning aunt, and flattening his hair to the point of no return. Surely he could do something right, but his hands were shaky and his palms were sweaty and, gods, he was so nervous! He looked at the clock again. 5:45. Being ten minutes early wouldn't kill them. "Aunt Knotgrass, it's time to go!"

She emerged from her room flattening her skirts and touching her hair. "Okeydoke, sonny!" She was happy as ever, oblivious as ever, and for just a moment, Diaval hated her. _She _shouldn't be accompanying him on his first date._ She_ shouldn't be the one walking with him. _She_ shouldn't be the one that prepared the pie and the potato salad. He was supposed to be with his _mom._

He knew it was wrong to hate her. He knew she had done nothing to deserve it. He knew she was hurting, too. He knew she would rather have his mom by his side than go to dinner with him any time. But the past couldn't be changed. It couldn't be altered. It couldn't be fixed. So he flattened his shirt again, making sure the sleeves were buttoned, and left toward her house.

Upon arriving, they noted that the house was tiny. He supposed they were still in the ghetto-ville side of town. He knocked on the door and tried not to crinkle his nose at the absurd amount of perfume Knotgrass was wearing.

The door swung open, and there was a fair amount of squealing and cheek-pinching before Maleficent made her appearance, pushing them off of him. His jaw dropped open at the sight of her. She was _gorgeous. _She had donned a simple black dress that hugged her but still flowed freely. It hung to her knees. She wore her favorite horned headband. Her eyes sparkled with annoyance while she tried to defend him from the onslaught of moms. There were only two of them, but they filled the small house to the brim. He awkwardly shuffled out of the way and let Knotgrass wander in. They had a similar reaction to her.

Maleficent took his arm and pulled him into the kitchen, which definitely smelled like something had been burnt. "I think they're more excited than I am," she muttered. She took his items from his hands and placed them on the counter before turning to him. "Hi."

Diaval meant to say_ hi_, he really did. But instead all he could muster was a breathy, "_Wow_…" She tilted her head at him ponderingly until he shook himself rapidly and replied, "I mean, hi." He curled his lips into a smile. "How are you?"

She reached to slick his hair back like he usually wore it. "Better now that you're here and there are no more fires in the kitchen."

He let her slick it back, secretly relieved that she did so. He hated it flat. It looked stupid. "They didn't actually start fires, did they?"

"Oh, yes, they did. They were about to put water on an oil fire. I daresay our dinner would've been cancelled if I ran slower." She peered into the living room, where the three older women were talking avidly. "They'll talk till nightfall. Let's eat." Her hand left his hair. "What's with the long sleeves? It's burning up outside."

He stiffened. "I don't have any nice clothes with short sleeves."

"You didn't have to wear nice clothes."

"Every other person in this house is wearing a dress."

Amusement played around her eyes while she slapped potato salad onto a plate. "Well, I have a few extras, if you'd like to try one on."

He choked on his spit. "I didn't—"

"I was kidding." She handed him the plate. "Soft drinks are in the fridge. You are forbidden from drinking beer, just in case that would tempt you."

"It would not." He grabbed a Sprite and sat down at the table, but waited for her before he started eating. "Are we waiting for a family prayer?"

"Hell no. Not until the pastor dies or decides to let us set foot in his church again, anyway. Asshole." She popped her Coke open a bit rougher than need be, and Diaval realized that he had struck a nerve.

He bit his lip. "Oh. Understandable." He had a spoonful of potato salad, which was pretty much tasteless, but he ate it anyway because he brought it. "What is this, now? Are we officially like going out?"

"Not if all you want to do is update your Facebook status," she quipped. He waited for an actual answer. She stared at him with those haunting green eyes streaked with gold, full lips a bright red. "We're only 'going out' if you want to be 'going out'. I personally don't care who knows except my parents. I stopped caring what others thought of me a long time ago." He stared back at her blankly, his lips parted slightly. So it was his decision. He hadn't made many important decisions in his life. "But, if you care anything about your reputation when school starts, you would be wise to keep this under the table."

He frowned. "I don't want to keep you my dirty little secret. And friends don't exactly swarm around me, if you haven't noticed." He lifted his lips slightly. "But if you don't want me to update my Facebook status, I won't."

Some unidentified emotion danced in her eyes, but she nodded in agreement. "Alright." She pulled out her phone. "I bet I can update my status faster than you."

He broke into a grin and fumbled for his phone. "You're _on!_"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ugh. I have way too many stories going at once and way too many plot bunnies attacking me. I keep working on things two or three pages at a time, rather than a chapter at a time, which basically leads to nothing getting updated!**

**This chapter has strong mentions of self harm and suicide (don't be afraid), so if that bothers you, don't bother me with your being bothered. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

A ringing phone woke Diaval. He glanced at his clock. Four thirty. In the morning. His heart leapt into his throat. People only called at ungodly hours to report ungodly things. He snatched up the phone, barely looking at the caller ID. "Hello?" he breathed.

"Morning, birdy."

He choked. "Maleficent! Are you—is everything okay? What's wrong?"

He could almost hear her smile. "Everything is fine, nothing is wrong. Mother Dawn has some secrets to share with you. Can you come to the park?"

"Park? Right now?"

"Yes."

"And this couldn't wait until, say, noon?"

"It wouldn't be dawn at noon. Be there or be square." She hung up on him. He sighed, grumbling to himself, and swung out of bed. She requested him; he would be there. He pulled on a shirt and combed his hair back quickly. His expression was haggard and pale, and his hair wasn't cooperating. He brushed his teeth and grabbed a pair of shorts, pulling them on while he hobbled to the door, still drowsy with sleep.

The park was a five minute walk, and he took as long as he could in the hope of composing himself. Dew tickled his ankles and wet his socks. The morning birds sang sweet melodies. He headed toward the solitary figure on the swing set and sat down next to her, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Good morning."

She gave him a soft smile, a real smile, so unlike the painted ones that he had seen before in public. His heart picked up at the curl of her ruby lips. "Dawn is my favorite time of day." The gold streaks in her eyes reflected the liquid amber of the dawn sky, streaked pink and rosy with the rising sun. "It is the only time that I can feel at peace with the world. When I'm not angry or bitter."

He swallowed hard. This was her special time, and she chose to share it with him. She was wearing the shirt with the torn wings, and upon a brave impulse, he traced the burn scars curled into her pale flesh. Her haunting eyes flicked away from the sky and back to him. One index finger trailed down the scar by his eyes, and his eyes fell closed at her touch, leaning forward into it slightly. All he heard was the fluttering of his heart. She drew nearer, the swings squeaking their rusty chains. Her breaths touched his cheeks, and ever so slowly, their lips came to touch.

It was a sweet, innocent kiss of youth, over as soon as it began. Diaval murmured, "The early bird gets the worm." His hand left her scarred back. He folded his arms against himself. But she was keen, and she took his hand.

Gently, she turned his arm top down and exposed the pale underside, lined with angry, red cuts. His breath hitched, and he refused to meet her eyes, turning his gaze to the ground. His cheeks warmed. He should've known she would notice. He should've covered them. He shouldn't have done it in the first place. She touched his cut wrist. "I'm here," she reminded him softly.

"But she's not." His voice was vulnerable, juvenile, weak, pathetic, and a whole list of negative adjectives that didn't apply to a strong man. He wasn't _strong_. A single tear left his eye.

She caught the tear on her thumb and wiped it away. "I think she's in the dawn now." The dawn was her comfort; it was the softness of the morning; it was what made her feel whole. She knew what it was like to be broken. Maybe not the kind of broken that Diaval experienced, but brokenness was fairly universal. "Can you feel her?"

His eyes slipped closed. He could, he thought. She was in the sun rising over the horizon. She was in the moon, slipping away behind them. She was in the sacredness of transitioning from night to day. "I can." How did Maleficent always know? How could she know exactly what he needed, read him like an open book when everyone else accepted his painted smile?

The rusty swings creaked and squeaked. She still hadn't released his arm. "You know how to find her now. You don't need to do this again." He clenched his eyes closed. "Promise me you won't do this again, Diaval."

_Promise me. Promise me_. It echoed in his mind. And for the first time, he wasn't _birdy_, but himself. Could she still love him for himself? He didn't know. But her eyes bored into him like emeralds mixed with the dawn. They weren't angry, but they weren't serene, and instead they seemed brutally energetic and filled with the precision needed to conduct an orchestra. "I promise." He blinked evenly back at her. "How did you…How did you know?"

She pecked his cheek, making him blush, before looking away. "My best friend went on suicide watch in the hospital when we were fifteen." Her eyes danced to the dawn sky. "They released her after a week. She went home and took a bottle of her dad's sleeping pills." Their fingers were loosely joined.

Diaval gave her hand a slight squeeze and pretended not to notice that her eyes swam with tears. "I'm sorry."

"She's in the dawn now."

He pursed his lips. "I thought the old metaphor was that spirits became stars."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is it so?" He shrugged. "Someone has watched _The Lion King_ far too many times." The sun warmed them, the dew drying on the grass. The dawn was nearly gone and into a fresh morning with birds chirping about. And, for the first time in a very long time, Diaval felt completely at peace.

* * *

Dawn awakenings became their routine, watching the sun rise together on the swing set. Some mornings they talked. Some mornings they didn't. Diaval made a habit of picking flowers along the way and presenting the bouquet to her. He didn't miss Maleficent's sharp glances to his wrists nearly every day, but the cuts did not make a reappearance. When he reached for his blades, he thought of her voice, _Promise me_, and felt violently ill. He threw them away after that. Knotgrass was oblivious as ever.

Band camp approached in the distance, looming over them like a mountain casting a shadow. She warned him of what was to come. "Henry won't do anything about it. He's in favor of hazing, to make sure that everyone is dedicated." Even worse, they were grouped into rooms first by section, then by seniority. Diaval had to share a room with Pinocchio. He was not looking forward to it.

His audition went smoothly, and he easily made first part, which called for a celebration of ice cream and Coke. The two scheduled practice together to work on memorization. Maleficent was keen with her memory, but she had never seen anyone take music to mind and heart as quickly as Diaval. His marching progressed quickly, and soon he marched as well as any junior or senior on the field.

"Do you have valve oil?" he whispered to Maleficent. She shook her head and kept at attention. Shifting left and right, he began to ask some of the others, including Sideburns, if they had any. "I will sell my body for some valve oil!" he hissed.

"Oh, for god's sake, birdy." She snatched his trumpet away from him and handed him hers. "Hold that." She unscrewed the sticky valve and promptly spat on it. He cringed. She twisted it back into place and experimentally pushed it up and down. "Quick fix. He—"

She was cut off by a sharp cry of, "Attention! From the beginning!" Hands came down for a down beat, and before she even thought about it, she was unloading her lungs into Diaval's trumpet. It had a different feel than hers, the valve caps shaped differently, the third slide adjusted to a different length than hers. And—oh, gods, they used different mouthpieces. Her chops fought to adapt to the smaller cup. She made a note to self to get him a bigger one for his birthday or Christmas, whichever came first.

They waited for the band director to turn his back, and they scrambled for their respective horns so quickly that Diaval's nearly got dropped on the pavement. He licked his lips. "Cherry chap-stick," he muttered. She looked away with a smirk.

Practice passed by quickly, and they hurried to put their instruments away to avoid uncomfortable run-ins with Stefan. Maleficent checked her watch. "Our movie starts in twenty minutes."

He choked. "Come again?"

She pulled tickets out of her pocket. "We're going to see that new slasher film."

He looked down at himself, sweaty and gross, hair unkempt, shirt clinging to him. "Right now? _Tonight_?"

"Of course." She lifted a trumpet case in each hand. "Hurry up, birdy. We don't want to be late."

"Late to where?" The voice was not Stefan's, but instead belonged to Hans. He raised one ginger eyebrow. "Is witchy _dating _scarface, now?" He watched the tensing of their muscles. "Oh, how _adorable_. The wingless angel pulls another down from heaven." His breath reeked of cigarettes as he drew closer to Diaval. "I hope you're ready for your wing-cutting, birdy."

He didn't see it coming. The fist connected with his nose before either of them knew what was happening. "Don't you _ever_ call her that again," Diaval breathed while the red-head stumbled back, grasping his nose and moaning. The people watching seemed to shrug it off and continued to put away their instruments. "Let's go see our movie now, Maleficent." He took his trumpet case from her hand. They smugly swaggered out of the band room hand in hand.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I don't even know what to say about this, which means I should shut up! I own nothing; please review! (PS: On tumblr I am thesilvertrumpetgirl, and I am TheSilverTrumpet on DeviantART, so I would appreciate any follows there. :))**

* * *

Diaval's head drooped onto Maleficent's shoulder, fast asleep. The bus rocked beneath them. The morning was still dark. They were on their way to band camp. She sighed and turned off the music with the ear buds they'd split between them. Somehow, the groupings had gotten mixed up, and she wasn't rooming with Anna as she was supposed to, but instead Leila, the clarinet. Her hands fisted at the thought of the girl, the one that Stefan loved more.

She carefully pulled the bud from Diaval's ear and wrapped them around his IPod, placing it back in his carry-on bag. Their long legs were hiked up almost to their chests from the trumpet cases beneath them. She was tempted to wake him, but she didn't. She knew he had trouble sleeping, and he needed to get as much rest as he possibly could before Hendrickson would be drilling them out on the field. With some pulled strings, she'd managed to get them adjacent coordinate card numbers, but it was a mere small glory in what was sure to be a _rotten_ week.

The bus had left with a single warning from Stefan: "Make sure scarface knows what a lit cigarette feels against his skin before Friday," he had sneered at them. Maleficent touched his hand and let her eyes fall closed. She wouldn't let them hurt Diaval, but she didn't know if she was strong enough to stop them.

His fingers laced with hers, and his black eyes blinked awake. He looked to her. "Mmm. Sorry." He lifted his head off of her shoulder.

She gave a slight smile and didn't reply. His fingers fit perfectly with hers. After a few more moments of staring at them in wonder, she replied, "Morning, sunshine." The hints of dawn were showing on the horizon. The sacredness of their ritual was violated a bit by the other cars humming down the road, by the quiet chatter coming from other bus seats, but it was still them, together, watching the sunrise. The dawn reflected into his ebony eyes, light illuminating the scars curled into his flesh. She restrained the urge to kiss him and squeezed his hand.

His lips brushed one severe cheekbone for a mere moment. "I love you," he whispered.

The first time. The first time those three words passed between them. They burned. They lit fire in her heart. A flame ignited within her, and she closed her eyes against bitter memories while she quietly returned those three little words. "I love you, too." She meant it. She knew he did as well. "Assuming we both come out of this week alive, would you like to go to dinner on Saturday?"

He blanched. "Saturday? You mean the day we're going to be zombies after a week of rooming with our archenemies and marching twelve hours a day?"

"Sunday?" she amended. She arched an eyebrow at him.

He smiled. "Of course." He rubbed his eyes with his fists and yawned. "Are we almost there?"

She snorted. "Not hardly. About three more hours to go." She offered him a Pop tart, which he accepted and consumed greedily. "You should eat breakfast," she told him, not for the first time. He shrugged. "I'm going to drag you out of your room by your ear this week. You'll pass out if you don't eat, and you're in the exact section that would _love_ to trample a thousand dollar instrument if you go down on the field."

"I don't know if I should be offended that you're more concerned about my trumpet than me."

"I would assume that you're insured. Your instrument is not." Her eyes twinkled with good humor, and he cracked a tired smile at her. "Sleep if you can. He'll have us marching until we drop with exhaustion." He nodded and leaned his head back, trying to get a comfortable position for his head. She didn't tell him that she really didn't mind being used as his pillow, but instead boldly leaned her head on his shoulder. He placed his arm over her shoulders and glared at the two girls the pointed at them with hushed whispers. He rested his head against hers and smelled her hair.

Sleep came and went for both of them, sometimes there, sometimes not, sometimes chased away by the rocking of the bus, sometimes brought back by readjusting their positions against each other. It was a little past noon when they unloaded their bags and instruments from the trailer and went to find their rooms before lunch. Diaval naturally took the smaller, dingier bed, to make sure Stefan had less to complain about. But the older boy didn't make an appearance.

He adjusted his hair and crumpled shirt in the mirror before a furious pounding on the door startled him out of his vain stupor. "Yes?" He swung it open, only to be forcefully shoved out of the way by Maleficent. "What the hell?" he grumbled. "What's wrong? You're not even supposed to be on this floor!"

"What's _wrong?_" she repeated. "What's wrong is that Leila and her boyfriend decided to _fuck_ in _my_ bed! That's what's fucking _wrong,_ birdy!" She tossed her bags onto the bare mattress. "That bastard is going to _sleep _in the damn bed he jazzed on, because I most certainly am _not!_" She clawed at her hair, pulling it free of her horned headband.

Diaval shrugged. "Alright. What do you plan to do about room checks?"

"They never actually have room checks." She pulled a brush through her long, dark hair. Her hands quaked. She was shaken badly. It wasn't often that she left the room for two damn minutes to get some coffee and returned to see…well, _that_.

Diaval stilled her hands with his own and took the brush from her, carefully combing through the small tangles. "Calm down." Her hair was straight and soft to the touch. "We can go to lunch and forget any of it ever happened, okay?"

She ground her teeth. "I wish it was that easy," she muttered. She hugged herself. "I have never seen anything so _disgusting_ before in my life." She let him comb her hair with no complaints and, when he was done, reached back to tie it in a ponytail.

He smiled a bit, but it didn't meet his eyes, which were lined with dark circles. "Lead the way, my lady." He gave a humble fake bow and winked at her. She raised one shapely eyebrow that always let him know that she was in no way charmed by his antics, and he gave her an innocent smile that always told her he _knew_ she was charmed by his antics, no matter how much she denied it.

They sat alone in the cafeteria and chatted idly over some cold pizza and chicken fingers. Maleficent donned her horned cap. Diaval didn't miss the revolted look that came over her face when they passed the hot dogs. He didn't need to ask, so he didn't, even though he was strongly tempted to just to watch her squirm. She didn't squirm often. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever seen her squirm before.

They didn't see either of their supposed-to-be roommates at lunch, and they were glad. Diaval walked a half step after her to the practice field, letting her lead the way, because he was lost as all hell on the college campus. The cars didn't ever slow down for them, and Maleficent refused to let him jump out in front of one. ("Oh, come on," he protested. "They'll _stop_ in time. What's life without a little risk?" to which she replied, "Risk your life on your own time, but never your instrument.") She also refused to let him jay walk. ("We're going to be _late!_" "We'll be later if you get us _arrested_ on campus.")

Once at the field, they discovered that they weren't late, and they were actually early, which earned Diaval a smug smirk from Maleficent. He crossed his arms and huffed indignantly while he prepared his instrument. He sneaked valve oil into his pocket; he had no intention of having her spit on his valves again. Methodically, he slipped his gloves onto his hands and hung his coordinate card around his neck.

It would've been a lie to say practice went quickly. The sun bore down upon them and crackled on the field. The grass was dead beneath their feet. They slaved until dinner time, had thirty minutes to scarf down whatever they could find in the cafeteria, and had to sprint back to the field to be on time. Their feet ached, their arms burned, their backs moaned in protest of every movement, until nearly eleven o'clock, when it was finally too dark to see the yard lines at all.

Stefan and Leila didn't challenge the assumption that their rooms were switched up, and they were grateful. After dragging themselves up six flights of stairs due to the conveniently broken elevator, Diaval collapsed onto his bed. Maleficent called the first shower. She showered quickly and changed into a black nightgown. Her birdy had fallen asleep on his bed, still completely dressed with his coordinate card around his neck. With a small smile, she touched his shoulder. "Birdy. Birdy, wake up. You need to take a shower."

He blinked up at her blearily. His lips parted, but sound didn't escape for a moment. Then, "Huh? Oh, right." He rubbed his eyes and sat up. He grabbed a stack of clothes and stumbled into the bathroom almost drunkenly. Maleficent curled up beneath her covers, but didn't sleep, instead waiting for him. _Or_, she thought drily, _making sure he doesn't fall asleep and drown in the shower_. Weariness pulled at her eyelids, but she was persistent. He emerged from the bathroom clad in nothing but his undershorts.

She quickly rolled over to limit her view of him. _Of course he sleeps like that, silly_, she chided herself. _How old are you, twelve?_ "Don't put your coordinate card in with the dirty clothes," she told him sleepily. He grunted in acknowledgement, unable to muster anything else. He sank beneath his own covers.

Gods, he _snored_. She covered her ears with her pillow and tried to think peaceful thoughts. It wasn't loud, obtrusive snoring, but it was just enough to keep her from dreaming. Trying a new idea, she matched her breathing with his. Instantly feeling sleepier, she fell into the hold of slumber.

She awoke when his snoring stopped. It was three AM. _ Four more hours before we're due on the field_, she thought groggily. Rolling over, she squinted across the room. He was stirring in his bed. "Birdy?" she whispered. He began to thrash uncontrollably. His blanket fell to the floor despite the cool temperature of their room, and her heart leapt into her chest. Drowsiness abandoning her mind, she stumbled across the room to him and touched his bare shoulder. His hand latched onto her wrist and pulled her down. "Diaval!" she snapped.

His eyes shot open. Keen obsidian orbs fought to gather reality from nightmares. He was sweaty, beads dripping down his face. He shivered. "Maleficent?" he questioned. He relinquished her wrist from his vice grip.

She suddenly understood why he always looked tired. "Are you alright?" He nodded. She gathered his blanket. "Budge over." He complied with a questioning eyebrow. She crawled into bed next to him. It was a tight fit.

"What are you _doing?_" he hissed.

"Sleeping with you." She didn't even care to correct the awkwardness of that statement. Her arm rested on his belly. His arm snaked under her head. He smelled like cologne. His skin was cool with the sweat he had shed in his dream. He didn't try to move away from her, so she let herself relax against him, and she fell asleep to the even sound of his breathing.


End file.
